Tristan stood in the hallway of his home, his back pressed against the door. He closed his eyes. The man’s words kept racing around his mind. How unutterably foolish he had been. How unspeakably stupid. Shame and humiliation washed over him again, making him feel dizzy. At the same time, he was wracked by a sense of loss so deep it made his chest feel as though it were about to crack wide open. He pressed a hand there and tried to breathe. He made his way to the study and poured a brandy. He stood by the fire a moment or two and then crumpled into a chair still clutching his glass. He wondered if he might cry, but he felt too numb, too bruised, too hollow.
He had no idea how long he had been there when the door opened and Alfie walked in.
“What the hell are you doing hiding in here?” he
